


First Day

by SheWearsRed



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort Sex, Cullen Rutherford has a sense of humor, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Pillow Talk, Soft Cullen Rutherford, Thedosian Culture and Customs, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29736831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWearsRed/pseuds/SheWearsRed
Summary: Rosalind’s stomach was in knots. Bold as she was, she was not inclined to public speaking. She had been deeply unsettled since the beginning of this all, by this pedestal she’d been placed upon, by the weight of her title and responsibility. She was no hero, just a victim of fate, and she didn’t want these people - people she’d come to know and admire - viewing her as anything but an equal. Not a savior, not a legend, not even a noblewoman (hang her title for all she cared). Just Rosalind - a normal woman trying to do the right thing.--The denizens of Skyhold celebrate First Day. Rosalind contends with unexpected trepidation and finds comfort in the place she feels safest: Cullen's arms.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 18





	First Day

**Author's Note:**

> Another one shot that was meant to be part of a novella-length fic. Smut that *kind of* has a plot? Inconceivable, honestly. I'm actually really fond of this one and I hope you are too!

Skyhold had never seemed so festive. The smell of braised ram and spicy mulled cider drifted in from the kitchen, an intoxicating bouquet paired with the scent of fresh Fereldan pine boughs that hung from every rafter in the main hall. Chantry sisters hummed First Day hymns quietly to themselves in passing, dulcet tones giving way to the bolder sounds of pastoral songs sung by pilgrim and soldier alike. Wintermarch’s annum was always cause for celebration, but this year more than ever it seemed more cherished, more necessary. The denizens of Skyhold looked back on the previous year’s events, the missteps and miracles as surely as they looked to the Inquisition for guidance now, reflecting on all that might go wrong, on all they could learn from. 

Rosalind’s stomach was in knots. Bold as she was, she was not inclined to public speaking. She had been deeply unsettled since the beginning of this all, by this pedestal she’d been placed upon, by the weight of her title and responsibility. She was no hero, just a victim of fate, and she didn’t want these people - people she’d come to know and admire - viewing her as anything but an equal. Not a savior, not a legend, not even a noblewoman (hang her title for all she cared). Just Rosalind - a normal woman trying to do the right thing.

She’d begged Josephine to speak for her. Bargained, even. But her diplomatic advisor would hear none of it.

“The people want to hear from _you_ ,” she’d said. “They need it. You are their guiding light in such dark times.” 

She’d been surly ever since that unsuccessful negotiation, spending the rest of her night on the battlements, brooding and agonizing over what she might say. 

She _could_ ask Varric for advice, she’d reasoned with herself. He was better with words. But the wisdom he imparted on her the following morning was next to useless: 

“Just be yourself, Hotshot. They already love you.” 

By the end of the afternoon she still had very little to show for. So she had resigned herself to winging it - if Josephine took issue with that, well, that wasn’t Ros’s problem.

Despite the general chill that always seems to linger in the great hall, Ros can’t help but feel very warm. She thinks maybe it’s the trepidation, or, perhaps that Dorian has most definitely been spiking their flagons with very strong, bubbly Antivan wine. She finds the longer the day goes on, the less worried she feels about making some stupid little speech. And she scarcely feels a thing at all - this wine must not be as strong as the label boasts. She tells Dorian so at least twice. 

When she is finally ready to address the people, her cheeks are pleasantly flushed and she hasn’t a care in the world. 

There is a great shuffle of people toward the courtyard and it seems that everyone in Skyhold has dropped what they’re doing to listen to her speak. She feels a little flutter in her belly when Cullen brushes her hand in passing. He’s very pointedly avoiding looking at her. They are maintaining some modicum of professionalism; still, there is the ghost of a smile on his lips. She tries not to think about how distracting his mouth is. 

Her advisors take their places behind her and she watches over her shoulder as they fan out. Cassandra gives her an encouraging smile, a slight nod of her head. She looks surprisingly relaxed and Ros wonders how much spiked cider _she’s_ had. Her advisors’ presence at her back is equally comforting and infuriating. She wonders if they have purposely put themselves in the way of a potential escape.

Ros attempts to wipe the scowl from her face and turns to the people - _her_ people. 

“What a strange couple of months it’s been--” she begins, gazing uncertainly across the crowd, wondering what they think of her as she stands in front of them, dressed in an elegant fur coat, her face free of war paint, hair styled impeccably. It feels wrong somehow, ingenuine, as if she’s some lofty monarch addressing her subjects, not the same woman who just yesterday sparred with soldiers and gardened alongside herbalists, prayed with Chantry sisters and sorted books in the library with fellow mages. She swallows back the momentary self-loathing to go on:

“It has not been without heartache. But it hasn’t been without hope either. You look to me for guidance, as an example to follow onward along this strange journey. But you should know I look to you. I couldn’t have done this without you. I am not the Inquisition. _You_ are. All of you. We must stay strong, and take care of each other. And we must remember who we are and why that makes us strong. I cannot do this alone. I know I ask so much of you already--” 

She stops to collect her thoughts. The silence is so great she’s certain she could hear a pin drop; even all the crows in the rookery are sedate. She swallows thickly, suddenly overcome by an emotion she can’t place. It crashes down over her, resting heavy on her shoulders, her chest, as if her ribs might collapse and turn inward. With it comes the realization that she is _terrified_ : of failing them all, of dying, of this great, glaring burden, of losing those she has come to know and love. 

“We begin this year defiantly in the face of every odd against us. I swear to it, I will fight for you - all of you - every day, until my last.” 

It is silent for several moments, and she wonders if she’s said too much or not enough or the wrong thing. 

And then, there is a rushing in her ears, the rustle and clash of armor, the shuffling of feet, the buzz of a crowd.

“For the Inquisition!” someone shouts. A small chorus echoes, then another, and then everyone is crying out from all sides, fierce determination painting furrowed brows and bright eyes. 

Ros takes a step back, overwhelmed, and feels the warm, steady pressure of a hand at her back.

“Are you alright?” Cullen’s voice is so soft she barely hears it over the din of the crowd. 

Even though she is trembling like a frightened animal, she gives a slight nod. He is here and in this moment, it’s all that matters. It may be a breach of decorum, to be so close publicly, but Maker knows there are rumors, the way gossip spreads in Skyhold. She’d shout it from the mountaintops if she wasn’t concerned with deeply embarrassing Cullen, or potentially detracting from the Inquisition’s purpose. It isn’t a secret that the Inquisitor and the Commander spend so much time together, but it is not something they flaunt. Neither of them is quite comfortable with being the subject of gossip. 

The crowd hasn’t even begun to disperse before Ros has turned and begins to make a beeline indoors. Cullen catches her arm before she makes it too far inside, and pulls her into the relative privacy of one of the garden’s alcoves. 

The air here is fragrant with winter herbs, and though the sun has begun to sink below the horizon, the high walls block the worst of the bitter mountain wind. Cullen’s body shields her from the rest, his strong arms bringing her close. She buries her face in his chest, cheek pressed to the soft fur of his collar. 

“I don’t suppose you wanted to make that speech?”

“Never do,” she tells him, winding her arms around him. “I don’t think it’s ever going to get easier.” 

“I’d be worried if it did.” He draws a gloved hand down her jaw, tilts her chin up. The leather is soft, broken in, feels cool and comforting on her flushed face. “You’ve earned their respect for a good reason.” 

She lets out an unexpected laugh, startled by this revelation, as if she doesn’t quite believe it. “Very interesting, considering I haven’t a damn clue what I’m doing.” She pulls away from him, beginning to pace. It’s a terrible habit she developed in her adolescence at the Circle. It recently resurfaced as a neurotic response to uncharacteristic anxiety. “And haven’t for quite some time now. I wish they wouldn’t look at me like I’m … I’m some…” 

“Savior?” Cullen supplies, watching her, brow furrowed with mounting concern. 

“ _Yes_ \--” She stops, turning to look at him. “That’s exactly it! There’s nothing special _or heroic_ about me. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. I’m just-- I’m just a mage. I’ve barely lived my life at all. And I’m _terrified_ I’m not going to live to see this through. That I’m going to fail them. That I’m--” 

All at once, she’s in his arms again and her fears are swallowed by his kiss. He tastes like warmth and light and comfort and she thinks she would be content to stay here forever if she could, if the fates would be so generous as to allow it. When she opens for him, she tastes sweet, spicy cider and the bite of alcohol on his tongue. 

She pulls away to look up at him, but their lips are only inches apart. She can smell the spices that linger on his lips. 

“Is that what this is about?” he asks, smoothing an escaped curl from her brow. 

“Have you been drinking, Commander?” she asks archly, brows lifted. 

“That’s-- Why does--” His brow pinches together. Clearly, he was not expecting the abrupt change of subject. “This cider is _very_ good. I didn’t know Dorian tipped a whole bottle of wine into it until it was too late.” 

“And now you’re irrevocably changed?” she teases. “It’s not as if you’re a Chantry choir boy, Cullen. I am _well_ past believing that--” 

At this, he appears slightly scandalized, tips of his ears turning red. He clears his throat. 

“I just thought you might have waited until dinner to imbibe.” She gives him an impish smile. When she wraps her arms around him, she pauses when she feels something hard and rectangular brush her arm. “ _Cullen_! Is that a flask?” 

He has the decency to look sheepish. “It _is_ rather cold out here.” He withdraws the flask from within his cloak and offers it to her.

As if she couldn’t possibly love him more. She takes it from him and pops the cap off, pulling from it. The cider is still pleasantly warm. 

“You’re a terrible influence,” he tells her solemnly. She hands him the flask back, and as if making a life-altering decision, he contemplates it before taking a long drink. 

“That’s rich coming from the man who deflowered me on his desk.” 

He chokes on the drink, which sends her into a spiral of giggles. Before long, they have both succumbed to laughter, clinging to each other, faces pink and split wide with smiles, cider spilled on the ground. 

Once the laughter subsides and he’s simply holding her again, he kisses her forehead and asks, “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

She sighs and squeezes her arms tightly around him. “I am now.” 

It takes no small amount of talent to sneak past the crowd assembled in the great hall, especially when every conceivable occupant of Skyhold seems to want to speak with her. Ros feels especially accomplished that she also manages to spirit away a bottle of wine. She leads Cullen up the drafty stairwell to her chambers above. A fire has been roaring in the hearth all day, leaving the room balmy. Settling down on the fur rug in front of the fireplace with her pilfered goods, she smiles up at Cullen.

“That feast is for you--” he points out.

“That feast is for First Day,” she snarks, sipping wine straight from the bottle. She hands it off to him; his face registers confusion and then he sets it aside. “Besides, there is exactly one person I want to spend tonight with.” 

“Oh?” Cullen raises both brows and she honestly can’t tell if he’s playing coy or if he’s really that oblivious.

She would have thought it rather obvious. All the time spent together, the kisses, _sleeping together_. She told him she wanted to be with him, and while he seemed to share the sentiment, admittedly there was so much in the way. Maybe she hadn’t been vocal enough--maybe she had given him the wrong impression. She should have told him exactly how she felt. She would hate to know she’d left him wondering. 

“That’s _you_ , you arse,” she tells him, rising to her knees. She tugs on his arm, pulling him toward the floor with her. “I want to be with you, Cullen.” 

“Of course.” He takes her hands in his, kisses the backs of them, her knuckles, turns her wrists to kiss her palms and her fingertips.

“I think I want to be with you forever,” she tells him softly, watching his bowed head, the expression on his face as his lips press, whisper soft, to her skin. 

He raises his gaze to meet hers and a smile spreads across his face; his scar puckers and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and she knows she’d do anything to see him smile like this again.

“If you’ll have me--” She is rarely so timid as she is now. 

He doesn’t speak, but gathers her into his arms, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss that has her melting into him. His hands on her waist, her hips, her thighs leave her sighing against his lips. 

“Every day,” he tells her, cradling her face in his hands. “Until my last. I swear it.” 

He peppers her face with kisses, hands tangling in her hair, loosening it from its carefully crafted style until it falls in a curtain of copper waves down her back. He guides her gently to the floor, her hair a rosy halo fanned out against white fur. 

She watches, rapt, as he sheds his cloak, his gloves, his armor. He lies down beside her, brushing his lips across her jaw, the delicate column of her throat, her shoulder. He carefully unfastens the pearly buttons of her tunic, parting it down the middle to reveal silky, freckled skin as his kisses trail lower. He nuzzles her belly with his cheek, murmuring softly into her skin, “I’ve never felt this way.” 

She smooths wayward wisps of tawny hair from his temple, feeling her skin warm under his touch, flushing at his words. She feels something bright growing in her chest, expanding until it becomes too much to bear. 

“I love you, Cullen.”

He lifts his head to look up at her, eyes wide, looking slightly dumbfounded by this admission. Then, recognition blooms on his face and he gives her the widest smile she’s ever seen, warmer and brighter than sunlight. He cradles her face in his hands and kisses her. He kisses her tenderly, deeply, until it becomes a hungry, aching thing that has him pulling her on top of him, his hands exploring the shape of her waist, her hips. He tugs at her tunic, pulling it off her shoulders, down her arms, letting it fall aside, forgotten. He palms her bare breasts, squeezing, kneading, caressing until she is sighing above him.

His hands slide to her hips and he holds her steady, thumbs pressed to the juncture of her thighs. She presses her chest against his and rains light kisses on his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his scar.

“I love you,” she tells him again. 

He hums his approval, a low sound rumbling in his chest. Their foreheads pressed together, his sweet, cider-spiced breath warm on her lips, he murmurs, “Rosalind, I love you.” 

His lips are on hers again and he is kissing her, holding her close. 

When they are clothed only in firelight, pressed skin to skin, he guides her over him. He wraps his arms around her thighs, parting them, holding her in place. At the first touch of his tongue against her, she shudders and mewls, “ _Oh… Maker_ …” 

His soft laugh is muffled in the kiss he presses to her thigh. He nips at the smooth skin there, drawing out a mauve bruise. He traces the tip of his tongue down the seam of her sex, pulls her thighs wide apart and holds her against him. He delves into her core, devouring her. She sways above him. When he circles her clit with his tongue, her back bows, body trembling. 

He licks and nips and sucks at her until she is quivering and moaning, fingers threaded into his hair. She grinds against him and breathing seems less important than delivering her to ecstatic release. 

“Cullen.. I’m--” her voice drifts into a litany of moans. She pulls at his hair, thick thighs flexing against his palms, her body rose-gold in the firelight, dewy and flushed, lips parted. 

He licks at her even as she comes. She cries out his name, her entire body, every nerve ending alight. He finally draws away from her when her legs begin to shake, and kisses her thighs, the soft curve of her belly, her hip bones. Then, he lifts her and gently lays her on her back.

She pulls him close and kisses his glistening lips, tasting herself on him, like tart summer fruit. He growls softly, a deep, needy noise muffled against her lips. She slips her fingers through his hair again, tugging, and it’s almost too much to bear.

He lingers over her, face close, lips pressed to her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone. He kneels between her legs, drawing her thighs around him. Then, he presses forward, into her, and she’s left breathless, gasping. She feels him fill her, buried to the hilt, and when he slides slowly out of her, she is left wanting. Their lips meet and their tongues dance as their bodies press together again. When she rocks her hips against his, the delicious press of each thrust, the heat builds in her body until she unravels again and another climax tears through her. And then he is moaning her name softly in her ear, kissing the tender spot below it, nipping at it. He comes apart with his own release, murmuring sweet nothings against her skin. 

They bask in the afterglow together by firelight, all tender words and touches. His eyes are soft and a gentle smile tugs at his lips.

“Is this a new tradition?” he asks, his calloused fingertips skimming down the dip of her spine. 

She glances up at him, a bit surprised. She still isn’t quite used to this side of him - it rarely dominates his serious demeanor. She can hardly complain if he saves all his dirty jokes for her. She only loves him more for it. 

“Have I told you that I love you?” she asks, tracing the line of his jaw, his lips with her thumb. 

“You might have mentioned it a few times.” He smiles archly, his scar puckering.

Unable to resist, she kisses it. “You’re starting to sound like me, Commander.” 

“I must admit, I think you’re right,” he tells her. He guides her to the floor beside him and she nestles into the space between his arm and body, a perfect fit like lock and key. “What a terrible influence you are.” He kisses her forehead through a breathy laugh, stroking her hair off her brow. He tucks the errant strands behind her ear. 

They lay like that for some time, just holding each other in the warmth of the fire.

“So is it the sex or the fireplace that makes it a tradition?” 

Cullen coughs at the question. “I...er--” 

“Or is it the sex to make me feel better about making a horrible speech?”

“That’s _not_ why--” he stammers. 

“Because if you do _that_ every time I make a horrible speech, I’m inclined to make them so much more often.” She smiles cheekily at him. 

“Rosalind--” He might be exasperated with her if she isn’t so lovely and so very tempting, and if he isn’t so very much in love with her. “I will do that for you, no speech required, _whenever_ you’d like. I promise you, _I_ very much enjoyed it too.” 

She raises both eyebrows at him, feigning shock. “ _Whenever_?” 

“Perhaps not at the war table--” 

“Not even if no one else is awake to interrupt us?” She can tell from his silence that he’s at least considering the idea, possibly picturing it in his mind. “Well, that’s not a _no_ , is it?” 

He groans and buries his face in her hair. “You are _vexing_.” 

She hums her assent, smile wide. “You love it.” 

“I do.” He lifts his head to gaze down at her, suddenly very serious. “This is how I want to spend the start of every year. With you in my arms.” 

“ _Every_ year?” She bumps her forehead against his chin and settles against him. “That’s a long time.” 

“If you’ll have me--”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” She pulls him close and kisses him one last time as the midnight chapel bells toll.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I love silly pillow talk and I love Cullen having a sense of humor because sometimes whole swathes of the DA community seem to forget that. There is also something very deeply funny to me about Ros being a little shit and saying things she knows will embarrass Cullen - in private of course. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your support! Your comments, kudos, etc. are appreciated more than I can say.


End file.
